


The Drive

by Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me



Series: Copious Cockles [12]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: 11x04 Baby Inspired, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bottom Misha, Car Sex, Cockles, Cockles Big Bang, Dirty Jokes, Dirty Talk, Dom Jensen, Dreams, Eating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Feels, Fights, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, Hand Jobs, Jensen Ackles - Freeform, Love, M/M, Misha Collins - Freeform, Near Future, POV Alternating, Play Fighting, Polyamory, Realistic, Singing, Supportive Jensen, Top Jensen, Wives included, Worried Misha, one day, true to life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 13:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6959281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me/pseuds/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an exhausting day of work, nothing beats a long, relaxing drive— and it's something that Jensen and Misha have come to depend on throughout their years. The road seems to open up just for them, warm and welcoming— listening to all their frustrations and laughing with all their jokes. And if it were not for the metal and tires between them, it would see every kiss and grazing touch, too. The road can lead them as far as they want to go, calming the men's nerves with every mile driven; and usually these adventures will result with them lazily trekking over forgotten Canadian countryside until they finally decide to turn back, returning to the chaos of the stages ... but this time, things don't turn out that way. This time, everything happens just a little differently.</p><p> </p><p>“We spend a lot of time in the car … it’s our time to sort of, have deep conversations– talk about issues that are important to us …”

    – Misha Collins (Jensen/Misha Panel, Jibcon 2016)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Drive

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the [Cockles Big Bang.](http://cocklesbigbang.tumblr.com)
> 
> It was inspired by Supernatural's episode "Baby" and has a similar POV, and is also set in the same "verse" as my other, most popular story ["The Plot"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2795588/chapters/6274970).
> 
>    
> The wonderful art you see below was created by the amazing and incomparable [51st](http://51st.tumblr.com) who writes as well, and can be found here on Ao3 at [51stCenturyFox](http://archiveofourown.org/users/51stCenturyFox/pseuds/51stCenturyFox). In addition, she made a genius fan mix which I will attach at the end of the story. Please go follow and subscribe—she is a gem!  
> 

[ ](http://s358.photobucket.com/user/worksbysenorajane/media/drive%20cover_zpscctrdksq.jpg.html)

 

* * *

 

                The sky falls—a curtain across the earth, hiding heaven just behind. Driving towards the horizon feels like flying— _better than_ , because now he gets to be in control, stretch out his arms, roll down the windows and feel the breeze chill his face. It’s warm enough in the cab of his truck that the cooler air is welcome, even if it does send an obvious shiver up Misha’s spine—Jensen still keeps the windows cracked.

_Maybe he’ll scoot closer now._

                Jensen’s other thoughts fade with the image of the stages in his rearview. There was a lot to think about today; he’s going to be directing another episode soon, and the scenes they shoot now will lead up to that. There is continuity to consider, plot holes to avoid. Even though he doesn’t really have control over the storyline itself, he does at least try to cover _some_ bases when he’s running things. He really should be going over how to do all that, but Misha asked him if he wanted to take a drive—and when _want_ goes head to head with _should_ , well … guess who wins?

 _What is he doing?_ “What are you doing?”

                Misha stops mid-motion and turns a crooked smile towards the driver’s sidelong glance. “Making my finger man run his miles.”

 _Jesus Christ, he’s weird._ “What?”

                “You never did this when you were a kid?”

 _No … I was a normal kid._ “No, I was a normal kid.”

                Misha rolls his eyes and Jensen rolls his back towards the road.

                “You run your fingers along the landscape outside. As you drive, you make your little finger man jump over the hills and swerve around the trees. You need to avoid oncoming cars and you get extra points if you leap a cow. It’s actually quite a test of your mental agility.”

                “Or _stab_ -ility.”

                “Shut your mouth and drive, Jackles. My finger man and I have a race to win.”

 _Dork._ “Dork.”

                Misha just shrugs and Jensen drives on—both smiling as they let one hand complete their respective tasks, as the other twines their bodies together across the seat between them.

 

[ ](http://s358.photobucket.com/user/worksbysenorajane/media/afternoon_zpsvgdjp0ol.png.html)

 

                An hour goes by far too quickly—wearing its edges along the rocky earth like a grinding stone. Misha tries not to look at the clock, but the soft green glow keeps catching his eye. This afternoon has been too warm and too blue to end so soon.  It’s a rarity, set apart from the typical icy blitz attack they’re use to, even this late in the year—and he wants to use up every second while he can; even if he only does so by sitting shotgun and listening to Jensen sing … even if it _is_ off key.

_He can’t hit this note._

                Jensen inhales deeply as “Dream On” reaches its crescendo.

_He’s gonna try._

                “ _Dream o-o-o-o-o-o-o-on!_ ”

                The man’s crackling shriek fills up the truck and Misha claws at the window in mock-horror.

                “My eardrums are bleeding!”

                The wailing guitar soon replaces Jensen’s voice.  “Come on, I nailed that!”

                “No, you shoved _nails_ into my skull … there’s a difference!”

                “Fuck off, _I’m awesome_.”

 _No argument there._ “Remind me to bring earplugs next time.”

                “I’ll just leave you in your trailer next time.”

                Misha reaches down and squeezes Jensen’s hand. “Like you could.”

                The man smiles, sitting straighter behind the wheel while lifting their tangled fingers to his lips—dragging feather light kisses along each of Misha’s knuckles.

                The blush rushes across both of their cheeks in spite of themselves.

                “You’re right.”

 

[ ](http://s358.photobucket.com/user/worksbysenorajane/media/afternoon_zpsvgdjp0ol.png.html)

 

                “Oh, a fruit stand!” Misha yelps over Jensen’s perfect rendition of “Free Bird”.

                Jensen turns down the volume, reluctantly. “Dude, that shouldn’t get you so excited.”

                “I’ve been craving plums for like a week now. _Shut up_.”

 _Who the hell craves plums?_  “Oh, wow … well then, when are you due? You’re _barely_ showing … but I guess you _have_ _been_ glowing lately.”

                Misha swats Jensen’s arm blindly as they roll onto the dusty drive path that parallels Abernathy highway. The tiny fruit stand is soon outside of Misha’s window and the man wastes no time jumping out and rushing over, scanning each colorful tray with something akin to exalted bliss.

_He didn’t even shut the door._

                Jensen sighs as he clicks off the engine, taking his time getting out and walking around to the other side of the truck. He knees the passenger door closed and then falls up against it, watching his friend _squeeze this_ and _sniff that_ , scrunching up his nose in ways that makes Jensen giggle and settle into a contented lean.

 _How does he make even this look cute?_ “Done yet?”

                “ _No_ … look, they have cantaloupe!”

                The lady standing in the back of the half open shack smiles and nods to confirm her stock—as if Jensen would contest it.

                “That’s great, Mish, but we do have to get back to work at some point this year.”

                “Yeah, yeah.”

                “I don’t think squeezing your melons counts as a valid excuse for being late.”

                The other man aptly ignores him.

                “I’m not getting any younger … _still younger than you,_ but ya know …” Jensen snickers as he watches a sneaky middle finger pop up from behind one of the trays; so he responds by humming the Jeopardy theme song.

                Misha only scoffs—taking a moment before lifting up two of the melons and walking around the display. He presses them hard to his chest, side by side while also making some very lewd shapes with his tongue. Hips gyrate and fingers play with imaginary nipples—not very deftly either because the man nearly drops one of the fruits amidst his show. The woman in the back turns as red as the apples surrounding her table, quickly spinning on her heels—busying herself with _absolutely nothing_ , trying to keep from watching Misha embarrass them all.

_Oh my god, stop. Just stop!_

                Misha lowers a melon and begins humping it.

_No … Mish, stop._

                “Aye, Poppi!” Misha purrs in a high pitched voice.

 _Jesus fucking Christ._ “ _Okay_ , alright! Just get your fuckin’ plums so we can go!”

                Misha of course, has to act like he finishes before he straightens out and gives Jensen a victorious smirk.

                The woman in the back is still refusing to turn around.

                “You better buy those damn cantaloupes too. She can’t sell those anymore … not after you _defiled_ them _._ ”

                And _that’s_ when Misha seemingly decides to develop some shame—blushing a little as he looks down at the fruit still in his hands. He nods—turning around to go place them on the counter … rushing back to grab a few more for all the trouble.

[ ](http://s358.photobucket.com/user/worksbysenorajane/media/drive%20bar_zpsbv4ibgba.jpg.html)

                Twenty minutes later—the back of Jensen’s truck is brimming with melons and plums, and so many damn apples people are going to think they mowed down an orchard. The woman at the stand didn’t seem to mind them so much after that, not once they handed over the hundred and thirty five dollars to cover everything they took.

                “We can give a lot of it to the crew” Misha slurps around his half devoured plum.

 _We don’t have enough crew to eat all this._ Jensen laughs and gives him a nod.

                Then, with sticky fingers, Misha reaches out for the volume knob on the radio—turning it up and scooting in close to his friend’s side. And that is all it takes for Jensen to smile wider and drape his arm across Misha’s shoulders, humming along with a Cat Steven’s song as his friend continues to fulfill his cravings. The road is bumpy and they knock together sitting so close—but neither of them seem to mind; the bruises will be superficial—just like the ones now marring the apples in the back.

 

[ ](http://s358.photobucket.com/user/worksbysenorajane/media/evening_zpsegcuntlb.png.html)

 

                They discovered this small creek off of Maple Ridge a few months ago. Some free time and adventurous inklings brought them down a mess of back roads that led them to the ribbon of water which bordered the edge of someone’s property. The spot they stopped at is gorgeous—with its rocky outcroppings building up through the dirt, and tattered trees scattered along its edge. Long, skinny leaves leap off the branches with the breeze and spin to the earth like high divers. It’s a flurry of Canadian summertime—green and piling up at their heels. The long grass bends in a wave down the curve of land until it reaches the horizon and loses itself in color; and the flecks of orange, broken off from the setting sun, are just beginning to fall through the branches overhead. It’s warm and welcoming and almost too beautiful to stare at for too long. Yet, alluring as it all is—Misha’s eyes can’t help but trace back to the figure standing alone by the creek. Relaxed shoulders—chest expanding as he breathes in deep … blending in while standing out from all the beauty. He’s the perfect feature to this scene – just as verdant, sturdy yet swaying with the trees. Singing with wind. Lighting up Misha’s face like the sun.

_Jensen makes this place._

 

[ ](http://s358.photobucket.com/user/worksbysenorajane/media/evening_zpsegcuntlb.png.html)

 

                They felt the first drops just as darkness began to fall around them. The air had definitely taken up a nice bite, but they were determined to withstand—huddling closer together as they watched the gnats flit above the water. But the rain clouds snuck in once the sun turned away, and neither of the men noticed until they were getting spat on from above. It turned into a shower within seconds—making Jensen yelp and sending them both darting back towards the truck to hurdle themselves inside.

                “Damnit! The fruit!” Misha groans, turning and squinting through the back window.

                Jensen cocks an eyebrow and follows the man’s gaze—watching as the paper bags deteriorate with the wet. Apples tumble and melons roll, adding loud _thunks_ to the symphony of _pings_ that the rain is pelting across the hood.  “It’s fruit” Jensen finally sighs, shaking the rain from his hair. “It’ll survive.”

                Misha huffs like he’s not so sure, but turns around all the same and slumps against his seat. “That came out of nowhere” he mutters after a moment, looking at the roof of the cab.

                “Yeah. That’s Vancouver for ya.”

                “I hope it stops soon. Those roads could flood if it keeps going on like this.”

 _Oh shit._ “Fuck—hadn’t thought of that. Should we head back now?” Jensen stares at Misha intently, knowing that they probably _should_ no matter what the guy says, but … for some reason, he waits for his answer.

                “I don’t know” Misha drags on with a grin. “Might be kinda nice to get stuck.”

 _It would be._ “What about work?” Jensen asks, as if it’s actually of any real concern. They’ve been late a thousand times, and all it ever means is that they’ll have to rush filming a bit so they don’t lose the light… _and_ maybe do so with a pissed off director.

                “We don’t set up again until almost noon; I’m sure this’ll stop long before then.”

                Jensen nods—thinking that they should at very least _check_ on the roads, even if it’s just to say they tried, but instead, he nestles down beside Misha and lays his head upon the man’s shoulder, inhaling the rain and the smell of _him_. Frogs begin to chime in around the noise of the creek filling up, and before he knows it—he’s dozing off, only startling as Misha runs a steady hand through his hair. But when the man continues the motion, it soothes him all the more; and soon, Jensen is fast asleep, cradled in his friend’s touch and warmed by the press of his body.

 

[ ](http://s358.photobucket.com/user/worksbysenorajane/media/Night_zps1xyc7qdj.png.html)

 

                He dreamt of the orchard near his house in Washington. Maison was on his shoulders, giggling as she tried to grab apples while they walked beneath the branches. West ran ahead, kicking the fruit that had fallen onto the ground. He heard Vicki’s voice behind them, laughing as she told their son not to run too far. The sun was warm and the birds were chirping—and it all seemed so perfect, that he couldn’t help but be just a little sad when he woke up. But as he blinks away the sleep and squints through the dark, he notices _who_ is tangled around him, and then he can’t help but smile at the _other_ sort of perfection he has come to know in his life.

                “You up?” he whispers, barely loud enough to conquer the white noise of the rain.

                “ _Hmm_?” Jensen hums into the curve of Misha’s shoulder.

                “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

                “S’okay. Was goin in and out … your shoulder’s lumpy.”

                “Not a very good pillow, _huh_?”

                Jensen pulls his head away and groans as he rubs out an apparent crick in his neck. “Not really … but it’s the _best_ _damn smelling_ pillow around.”

                Misha laughs as the man shoots him a droopy but flirty wink. “Your obsession with how I smell is bordering on concerning.”

                Jensen only shrugs and slumps back against his chair. “Still coming down hard, isn’t it?”

                Misha glances over at the clock. It’s four in the morning. _The roads are definitely flooded now._ “Yeah. If we weren’t stuck before …”

                “Well, at least we have enough fruit to survive if we’re _permanently_ trapped out here.”

                The snark in his friend’s voice makes Misha roll his eyes. “Hey, you won’t be teasing when you start getting hungry.”

                Jensen’s smile falls as he drops his eyes towards his stomach. “Speaking of which …”

                The truck rocks back and forth with the man suddenly clamoring over the seat. Bowed legs kick and scurry, and Misha swats at Jensen’s muddy boots, trying to keep them away from his face. “Watch it!” he yelps, but Jensen doesn’t seem to care—only stretching his long body across the next row until he can work the latch of the back sliding window. The sound of the rain tumbles through the cabin and soon, Jensen’s grunts join in—arm flailing in the storm and the cold, trying to grab for something smaller than a cantaloupe.

                “ _Ah ha_!” he finally shrills, pulling his arm back inside and tossing an apple towards Misha’s head.

                He sees it just in time and ducks before it can bean him in the eye. “Jesus! Warn me next time!”

                “ _Incoming!_ ”

                He ducks again as two more apples come hurtling his way—one pelting his ear as the other tumbles down onto the floor and settles by his foot. He just finishes wiping away the drips that splattered across his face when Jensen slams the window shut again and plops back down beside him. “Could you be any more graceful?” Misha spits, widening his eyes as the guy happily bites into an apple.

                “ _Mmm_ … these are good. And they’re nice n’ cold.”

                “Well mine are all bruised and muddy now, thanks for that” Misha whines, picking the apples off the floor.

                “Just hold it out the window, they’ll get washed right off.”

                “You are just _so_ resourceful” Misha quips, waiting a moment before reluctantly rolling down the glass.

                Once the apples are clean and his sleeve is thoroughly damp—he joins his friend in enjoying the sweet fruit. They _are_ very good and soon, all annoyances are lost amongst their filling bellies.

                It is silent for a long while—only smacking lips to patch up the gaps between the rain; and Misha almost doesn’t want to break it, but there’s something other than hunger gnawing at his gut.  “I had a dream about the kids” he finally says around the last bite of his apple.

                “Oh yeah? Good dream?”

                “Good and bad” Misha sighs. “It made me miss them—Vicki too. I mean, I _always_ miss ‘em … but, _you know_ …”

                “Yeah.” Jensen reaches out and laces their fingers together once more, letting the gesture fill in the blanks.

                “Sometimes … sometimes I wonder if I’ll regret all this.” He feels Jensen’s grip tighten around his knuckles and he knows he’s just worried him.

                “What do you mean?”

                “Being away so much … _missing_ so much. Do you ever regret not being around?” His friend’s grip relaxes.

                “All the time.” Jensen inhales deep and then twists his body so he can face him—and Misha suddenly feels shy. “But I love what I do and the people I’ve gotten to meet while doing it. And … I want JJ to experience the same thing someday, so I should set a good example for her now.”

                Misha nods but keeps his eyes down—not sure why he feels so self-conscious, _but he does_. “I know … and I agree. But, ya know … we just won’t ever get back those memories. I mean … I missed _a lot_ — like Maison’s first words; and the other day, I guess West managed to get his hands on some of my tools and built a semi-decent looking _house-thing_. Not sure if it was supposed to be a birdhouse or what but, I should have been there to show him how to do it. I should have been around to—“

                Jensen’s soft palm falls gently against his cheek—hushing his worries while drawing his eyes up to meet the green. “You can’t always be around for everything, Mish. Even if you were there _more_ … there’d always be things you’d miss.”

                “I know, but …”

                “It’ll hurt and it’ll suck, but … do you enjoy what we do?” Jensen inches in and stares—unblinking and insistent.

                “Of course, but—”

                “So then they’ll love you and be happy for you, and that will make seeing them again _that_ much better.”

                Misha smiles and nods against his friend’s touch—knowing that he could still argue, but there’s no point. Jensen is right and he _does_ love his work. It’s brought him and his family so much happiness—it’s _worth_ the sacrifice.

                “Besides … if you were home more, you’d just end up missing _me_.” Jensen grins and raises his eyebrow, as if challenging Misha to tell him otherwise.

                “Are you kidding? I’d miss Jared _far more_ than I’d miss you.”

                Jensen busts in half with a laugh. “Oh yeah, all that abuse is really somethin’ to long for.”

                “Stockholm Syndrome at its finest!”

                The two men joke on and wipe away the happy tears from their eyes, glad that they can always bring each other around. When the cab quiets again, Misha pulls himself closer into Jensen’s hold—finally resting his forehead against his friend’s. They share their breath and the humid air now filling up the space around them, steaming the windows over to keep the crickets and frogs curious.

                “I _would_ miss you” Misha whispers, letting his hand crawl up the side of Jensen’s neck.

                “I know you would” the other man laughs—humor cut off by a kiss, curtained in the grey of rain and steam, hidden from the eyes outside—and it makes Misha smile against Jensen’s mouth.

_Good … this is just for us._

[ ](http://s358.photobucket.com/user/worksbysenorajane/media/drive%20truck_zpsr7ckbs5b.jpg.html)

[ ](http://s358.photobucket.com/user/worksbysenorajane/media/Night_zps1xyc7qdj.png.html)

 

                By some sort of miracle—or some sort of clairvoyance that Jensen had picked up over the years of pretending to deal in the supernatural, he had put several blankets behind the driver’s seat of his truck a few weeks back. In all honesty, he knew it was because they would be shooting on site a lot in the coming months, and it could get pretty cold after sundown; but with the way Misha looked at him when he pulled them out and wrapped them around their bodies – he just went with him being some kind of superman.

                “Better?” Jensen asks while snuggling up to Misha’s side.

                “ … yeah “

                “Why the pause?”

                The corner of Misha’s mouth turns up—a lifting curtain exposing what’s to come. “Oh … _nothing_ —just … they say that _um,_ you know … skin to skin always warms you up quicker.”

                Jensen is yanking away the blankets and pulling off his shirt before the words even finish jumping off the guy’s tongue.

                “ _God damn_ ” Misha whispers a second later, obviously appreciating the show.

                “ _The_ _seat_ — lean it back” Jensen instructs and Misha does as he’s told. These roles are usually reversed—Misha tends to be the enforcer, _and Jensen_ —the crumbling façade of will. But moments like these are rare for them, so he is going to use the fact that he has a confined space and the rest of the night to back up the element of surprise.

                “Oh, _fuck yes!_ ” Misha hisses—wide eyed and watching as Jensen begins pulling off his jeans and boxers.

                It all took some doing, but after everything is wriggled away, Jensen can finally kick his leg over to Misha’s other side and straddle his lap. “Unzip your pants” he instructs again, and Misha fumbles hilariously at the fastenings of his clothes. Once undone, Jensen slips his fingers beneath his friend’s loosened waistband, smiling when he brushes a hard, leaking tip.

                “I like this—you taking care of me” Misha says around a stuttered moan.

                “Well, don’t get _too_ relaxed. I was kinda hoping _you’d_ take care of _me_ too.”

                Misha rolls his head back and closes his eyes—gasping as Jensen strokes up his length. “There’s always a catch with you, isn’t there?”

                “No … I just _am_ a catch.”

                Misha moans again but Jensen isn’t sure if it’s from pleasure or in response to his bad joke. More moans turn into minutes— sinful clumps of seconds that make Jensen’s own need _ache_ just as much as his wrist is starting to.

                “So … you gonna start reciprocating at any point?” he asks, waiting for Misha to stop arching into his hand.

                “I dunno—this is working out pretty well for me so far.”

                Wicked blue eyes slit open and stare him down—and _damn,_ if Jensen doesn’t nearly forget about himself with the thought of making those eyes burst wide with pleasure. He speeds up his strokes.

                Misha gasps more and writhes in his seat—wiggling beneath him so furiously, that Jensen almost feels like he’s riding a bull.

                “Feel good, baby?”

                “ _F—fuck!_ ”

                Jensen smirks—he knows calling Misha any sort of pet name when they’re like this, is like a shock right to his crotch. “You look so pretty right now, sweetheart.”

                Misha all but cries—biting his lip and bending his spine up off the leather upholstery.

                “That’s it, darlin’ … that’s it.”

                And just as he hoped—Misha’s eyes burst open, flooding the cab with _blue_ and _need_. But what Jensen _wasn’t_ expecting was for the man to take a hold of _him_ in the middle of his bliss—wrapping long, swift fingers over the head of Jensen’s cock and twisting it up.

                “Oh _fuck_!” Jensen yelps, trying to keep his rhythm, but shivering with Misha’s precision-touch.

                Soon, the truck is rocking back and forth—both men muscling into one another, forearms straining and necks pulling—mouths open with strangled breaths as they glare into each other’s eyes. But Misha is the first to blink, _to break_ … bucking up with his release—his grip around Jensen, stuttering as he stripes his own shirt.

                The sight is _beautiful._ All the sunsets and clear water creeks look dull in the wake of _this_. And that sight is all that Jensen needs to feel his own resolve crumble. He fades into the sensation of his friend’s fingers—holding him tight and steady, and in no time at all—he’s adding to the mess, tipping over and bracing himself on the man below him. “Jesus _fuck_ ” he whispers, collapsing a little further with each exhausted exhale. Soon, he’s dipping his head onto Misha’s shoulder once more—breathing him in and kissing the sweat from his neck.

                “Ditto” Misha gasps, pressing himself closer, like there’s a chance that Jensen might slip away.

                “You got a shirt on under this one, right?” Jensen asks through more wheezes—tugging at the button-up draping over Misha’s hip.

                “Yeah— _thank god_. Really don’t want to walk into work tomorrow covered in dried semen.”

                Jensen giggles at the thought. He wickedly wishes that that _would_ happen—see what Jared’s reaction would be. _That’d be hilarious._

                After they recover some, Jensen finally pulls himself off of his friend—groaning as his joints lock with the cold and the strain. But soon enough, he’s clothed again, and Misha’s sticky shirt is balled up and tossed behind his seat, and those blessed blankets are wrapped around them once more.

                Yet, even with being thoroughly drained and _plenty warm_ after what they had just done, he still didn’t get the most restful sleep; but when the morning broke, he can’t say he really felt tired from it. Jensen actually feels like he’s ten years old again—having just had a sleep over with his best friend; and even though he spent most of the night laughing and talking— _among other things_ , he’s still full of energy when the sun rises. He knows it’ll wear off at some point, but for now, he’s enjoying breathing in the wet earth and the early morning air.

                “Should we go check the road?” he asks through a groan and a stretch—purposefully jutting his hand out and smacking Misha across the face … _just to be annoying._

                Misha bats the intrusion away and laughs. “Yeah, probably … before they send a search party after us.”

                “ _Nah_ , texted Jared last night when you were out so he would know where we were.”

                “You probably woke him up.”

                Jensen grins impishly. “Yep—he sleeps with his ringer on.” He begins chuckling to himself with the memory. “All he said was _fuck you._ ”

                Misha snickers at him. “You shouldn’t get so much joy out of annoying your friends.”

                Jensen purses his lips at that. “I’m surprised you even said that with a straight face.”

                “I know. I’m getting pretty good at this whole _acting_ thing.”

                “Took you long enough.”

                Misha punches him in the arm which of course, forces Jensen to climb on top of him yet again and pin him down—pulling away only to tickle the man’s sides and nip at his throat.

                “Stop! _Stop!_ ” Misha gasps, laughing and crying all at once. “I give! Okay. … _stop_! Uncle! Truce! _Safe word!_ ”

                Jensen lightens the attack just enough to glare at the man. “Did you just say _safe word_?”

                “I don’t … I don’t know w-what our safe word would be, so I-I just went with it!” Misha sputters again, finally working his knee up between them and shoving Jensen off. “I know yours is _keep going,_ but I don’t share that sentiment.” The man then rolls his shoulders out, cringing when there’s an audible _crack._ “God damnit!” he wheezes some more. “I’m too old for that … you’re gonna kill me!”

                Jensen giggles while letting the man right himself— but still leans in for a kiss before Misha can catch another breath. “You too old for that too?” he says—pulling away with a smile.

Misha sighs and shakes his head.  “No, thankfully not.”

 

[ ](http://s358.photobucket.com/user/worksbysenorajane/media/Morning_zpscixdekgs.png.html)

 

                “Okay! Give it another go!”

                The wheels of Jensen’s truck spin furiously and send an impressive spray of mud everywhere—including, _all over Misha._

                “ _Agh_! Damnit!”

                Jensen stares at him through the side mirror—mouth gaping as he begins to laugh and wheeze. “Well, why are you standing right behind the truck?”

                “I wanted to see if it moved!” Misha spits, wiping the mud away from his face.

                “Pretty sure ya coulda done that a bit further away there, buddy” Jensen gasps delightedly, smacking the wheel with his palm.  

                Misha flips him off but he frowns deeper when he sees that his friend is no longer looking at him.

                The truck’s engine roars again, but the thing still doesn’t budge. The roads _did_ flood the night before and certain stretches became full-on mud pits—mud pits that Jensen _insisted_ weren’t deep enough to stop his _big, Texas, manly-man_ truck. Misha had a fun time telling him “I told you so” before Jensen kicked him out to try and un-stick them.

                After a few more false starts and a few more layers of mud being caked around Misha’s ears—they finally managed to free themselves. It was _his_ idea to get some of the thick strips of bark that had fallen off of nearby trees and wedge them under the tires … but it was Jensen who actually succeeded in getting the bark positioned. Therefore, it was Jensen’s smug smile that Misha had to deal with once their vehicle was back on solid ground.

                “Just needed some muscle” Jensen chirps, wiping off the small bit of grime from his hands and kicking some layers off his boots.

                Misha rolls his eyes and attempts to brush _himself_ off  but, what he really needs a pressure hose at this point. “I look like a piece of shit with a face” Misha growls, giving up once he spots his reflection in the truck’s black paint.

                “A piece of shit with pretty eyes.”

                “Fuck you … this is _your_ fault, you know.”

                “I didn’t make you stand behind the truck, dude!”

                “You were watching! You coulda told me to get out of the way!”

                Jensen smile fades as he glowers at him from over the shiny hood. “You’re actually pissed at me, aren’t you?”

                Misha puts his hands on his hips and juts out his chin. “What the fuck do you think?”

                “Oh my god! It was an accident!”  Jensen barks, throwing his hands up in the air.

                “Yeah … _sure_. Whatever.” Misha tries to wipe some more mud off his face before he grabs the door handle to the passenger side and flings it open.

                “Don’t you dare get in my truck like that!” Jensen yelps as soon as he hears the hinge creak.

                Misha then watches  the man clamor around the front end to try and get to his side; but all the urgency in his voice only succeeds in giving Misha the added encouragement to quickly jump in, wiggling about in the seat while rolling his hips, thoroughly grinding in _all_ the dirt.

                “What the _actual fuck_ , man?” Jensen screeches, wide eyed—shaking fists at his side.

                “Oh … sorry, _it was an accident_ ” Misha sips snidely, giving his friend a not-so-innocent grin.

                “Fuck you, Mish! You can wash yourself off pretty easily, but it’s gonna take _a lot more_ to clean all _this!_ ” Jensen growls, unclenching and running a frustrated hand through his cow-licked hair. “You coulda at least let me put down a blanket first!”

                “And you could’ve asked me to move before you spun your wheels.”

                The two men glare at one another—nostrils flaring—chests puffed out. Neither is going to back down anytime soon, and Misha knows it’s really just their stubbornness and pride that’s keeping them firmly planted in bitter soil; but even as Jensen rounds back to the driver’s side, and even as the beautiful scenery grows smaller behind them, each stays silent. Neither even bothering to comment as the drying mud makes Misha scratch himself all over, or as the little loosened clumps fall from his jeans and crumble upon the floor mats.

 

[ ](http://s358.photobucket.com/user/worksbysenorajane/media/Morning_zpscixdekgs.png.html)

 

                Everything smells like mud and mildew, and he can’t even open the windows because last night’s rain dropped the temperature at least fifteen degrees. _It gross, he’s cold_ , it smells like the back of Jared’s closet, and Jensen has to deal with a pissed-off-Misha on top of it all. And on that note … _why is he even pissed, anyway?_ Jensen has more right to be mad than _he_ does; after all, all Misha needs is a shower. But Jensen will need to shell out a hundred fifty bucks _at least_ for a pro-detail job. _No_ , Misha doesn’t have the right to be mad … _not really._

                Although … it _did_ cross Jensen’s mind that Misha was standing awfully close to the tailgate.

                And he _did_ wonder if that just might be a splash-zone.

 _And_ he _did_ kind of laugh beforehand with the thought of spraying Misha with mud … but he didn’t think it would actually work!

                Jensen frowns even deeper. _Maybe the guy has a point._

He peeks over his shoulder and watches the other man for a moment. Misha is glaring through the windshield—staring down highway seven like it’s his mortal enemy. It would be fairly terrifying if the mud creasing the wrinkles in his face didn’t make him look so damn _cute_.  His frown softens—softening more as little flecks of dirt chip off Misha’s nose—making him rub it and then sneeze.

                “Bless you” Jensen offers gently, hoping his tone will be the foundation at one end of this bridge.

                Misha turns his head a little and nods in his direction—an obvious acknowledgment, but the lack of eye contact took it far away from being a _thanks._

                Jensen sighs. This was supposed to be a nice relaxing drive. He didn’t expect it to turn into an all-nighter—which, _that_ part wasn’t that bad … _not bad at all_ , but this morning, everything went downhill. _Why does something always have to happen_? There can never just be a perfect span of twenty four hours … at least not in _his_ experience. He needs to turn this around before they get back to the stages. If he doesn’t, then the rest of this week is going to hang on this moment—and Misha is a sweetheart, _but dude can hold a grudge_ , and Jensen doesn’t want to be on the begrudged end of that hefty stick.

                The truck roars back into civilization—along the edges of Coquitlam, and as if it knows _just_ where they are, Jensen’s stomach rumbles. They haven’t eaten anything since that fruit last night, and he’s _starving_. He imagines Misha has to be too _._

_Maybe that’s why he got so pissed so quick … or it was the fifty pounds of mud I kicked onto him._

                Jensen decides he’ll share the blame with the potential hunger.

                He opens his mouth a few times, attempting to form words that suggest that they should stop and get some food—but before he can settle on any good ones, something catches his eye; and soon his mind is reeling with ideas. The thoughts of breakfast fade into the recesses—fade in the light of _more important_ things.

                Misha furrows his brow as Jensen slows the truck to a crawl, eventually flipping it round on a side road and parking it up the block from which they came.

 

[ ](http://s358.photobucket.com/user/worksbysenorajane/media/Going%20Home_zpseyezc59k.png.html)

 

“Why are we stopping?”

                Jensen doesn’t say a word in response to him—just shuts off the engine and opens up the door.

                And he can barely utter the guy’s name before Jensen is closing the door again behind him, leaving Misha alone in the cab.

_Seriously?_

                He watches the man go to the bed of the truck and reach over the side, grabbing the edge of the tool kit he has strapped to the liner. He unhooks it and then opens it up, pulling out some reusable bags that he must have stashed in there at some point. Once the kit is closed again and re-strapped in its place, Jensen begins loading the three bags with a variety of fruit—going heavy on the apples in each one. Misha watches a little longer before arching over the seat and knocking on the glass of the back window, gesturing to Jensen when he finally looks up; but his obvious “What the fuck?” motion is ignored so more fruit can be packed away.

_Is he worried about it rolling around?_

                It has been that way all night as well as the majority of the drive over, so Misha has no clue why Jensen would be so concerned about it _now_. And his confusion only deepens as he sees the other man muscle the three bags back over the edge and then make his way around the end of the truck. Misha scurries back and  flips on his haunches, tilting his head to follow him, but he can’t get a good view; through the side mirror however, he can see his friend step up onto a sidewalk and back a few paces until he reaches an alleyway between the building they’re parked next to and the cannery next door.

_What is he doing?_

                He watches as Jensen begins to speak – words unintelligible, but smiling kindly as he lifts up each bag a little, nodding to them one by one. Misha then watches as Jensen listens, _seemingly_ to whomever he’s talking to—his brow gathering with some words, and eyes widening with others. Misha is gazing so intensely at the curious little show in the oval mirror that he jumps when he sees a hand reach out from the alleyway and take one of the bags. Then two more hands appear—a darker pair, collecting the other two parcels of fruit from Jensen’s hold … which he looks all too happy to hand over. If Misha wasn’t caked head to toe in mud, he would go out there and see _just_ what was going on; but he doesn’t need to scare the crap out of whoever Jensen is conversing with. _No one needs that kind of start this early in the morning._ Instead he just watches some more and strains his ears, only hearing the faintest trills of the other man’s laugh. But after a few more minutes, Misha finally gets to see _exactly_ what is happening—because Jensen is being completely enveloped in the arms of a woman. A woman, worn and tattered, weathered from the weather and a life on the streets. Even from here, Misha recognizes the hurt in her eyes, circled with the pure joy that comes from a kind gesture.

 _Jensen’s_ kind gesture.

                And then in a blink, a man is in her place, pulling his friend into a stronger hug and patting him heartily on the back.  When they finally part, the man still has a firm grip on Jensen’s shoulders—even after an obvious tear runs town his cheek, making a trail through the cloak of grime on his skin. The man doesn’t wipe it away though; showing more strength and pride by leaving it then he would by letting go and smearing away the evidence that it was ever there. It is a beautiful moment— _every moment of it_ ; and with all this going on, Misha doesn’t even realize that he’s been holding his breath—not until he sees Jensen take a step back and lift up his hand, motioning for the couple to wait there.

                And before he can exhale completely, Jensen is back at the truck. The driver’s side door swinging open once again, and Misha tries to grapple at words as his friend pulls up the front seat and collects the stack of blankets tucked away behind it; but it’s taking Misha longer than he’d like to figure out _just_ what to say.

                “Jensen …” Misha finally mutters, causing the man to pause a moment and look at him. He feels his face crack with a grin—little flecks of mud falling to his lap, and Jensen grins back contently—not saying a word, _but not having to_ , because everything that needed to be said, evaporated with the reality of the world. All the apologies and explanations shrink with the puddles lining the gutters outside. The door is soon shut once more—and once more, Misha is watching Jensen jog back to the alleyway to give over things that neither of them truly need—but others depend on.

_More hugs._

_More tears._

                This time— _mostly from Misha_.

                The mud doesn’t bother him anymore; and Misha is realizing, _it never really did._

 

                “So, you want some chow?”

                “I could eat” Misha laughs, side-eyeing Jensen the whole drive through Coquitlam.

                “ _What_?” Jensen asks after catching him staring for probably the hundredth time.

                “ _You_.”

                “Yeah?”

                “You aren’t so bad, Ackles.”

                “So you forgive me?”

                “I shouldn’t have been mad in the first place.”

                “Well, I coulda told you that.”

                Jensen laughs as Misha punches him in the arm.

                “So …”

                “Sorry about your seat. I’ll pay to get it cleaned.”

                Jensen sighs, reaching out for Misha’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “Don’t worry about it, babe. Some mud won’t hurt it. That’s the whole reason why I got a truck.”

                “Oh? I just always thought you were compensating for something.”

                Now it’s Misha’s turn to get punched.

 

[ ](http://s358.photobucket.com/user/worksbysenorajane/media/Going%20Home_zpseyezc59k.png.html)

 

                “Yeah, can I get two egg McMuffins … two large coffees … two hash—sorry, no … _four_ hashbrowns” Jensen looks back at his mud-covered friend. “ _Four,_ dude? R _eally_?”

                “All I’ve eaten is fruit! I’ve _earned_ this. Get me one of their apple pie thingys too … _oh,_ and fries! Small … no, _medium_.”

                Jensen gives him one, long exaggerated blink before turning back around to add to their order. “Yeah, so— _four_ hashbrowns, a small orange juice … medium fries, and … do you guys serve apple pies this early?”

                The intercom crackles to life “Yes, we do.”

                “K—so one apple pie, too.”

                “Two apple pies?”

                “No … just one, I was just saying _too,_  like— _as well, or also_ ”

                “One or two pies?”

                “Oh my go— _one_. One, singular pie!”

                “Okay, one pie—two hashbrowns, two small orange juices—”

                “No, only _one_ orange juice.”

                “Okay, _um_ … _one_ orange juice, one medium fries, two egg McMuffins and two coffees?”

                “Yes—you got it.” Jensen lowers his chin to his chest. “ _Finally_ …” he mutters a moment later.

                “Will that be all for you?”

                “Yeah.”

                “We’ll have your total at the window.”

                “Thanks.” Jensen begins to pull forward, looking at Misha with wide eyes. “Wow, that was an ordeal!”

                “It’s early and she’s working food service, give the girl a break.”

                “It’s _ones_ and _twos_ , man! I don’t care how early it is, you should always be able to differentiate between _one_ and _two!_ ”

                “Will you shut up? She’s going to hear you!”

                The two men quiet just as they pull up to the window. A thin, pale girl is waiting for them – looking even tinier in her ill-fitting polo.

                “That’ll be fifteen ninety five” she says quietly, ducking down a little to look into the cab of the truck.

                Jensen rocks to his side to pull out his wallet, flipping it open and slipping out his credit card, handing it over quickly—because the smell of fries and overly salted _everything_ is hitting his nostrils, and it’s making him want to chew off his own fingers.

                “ _Woah_ …” the girl whispers just after taking the card, but not moving any further with it.

                Jensen looks at her, confused for a second—and then barely refrains from growling. All he wants to do is _eat_. This is _not_ the time to get recognized by a fan. “ _Um_ , yeah … hi” he says, trying to wear a face that masks his annoyance.

_Come on, swipe it … swipe the damn thing!_

                The girl remains still and continues staring.

                “So … “ he begins again, already looking around the cab for something to sign for her. It would make her day and hopefully, move this whole thing along.

                “What happened to _him_?” the girl asks suddenly, pulling Jensen’s attention back just in time to see her using his credit card to point past him towards Misha in the passenger seat.

                Jensen looks over slightly and then back at the girl. “ _Umm_ …” he waits a moment, wondering how he can explain this all _quickly_ —but then an evil, probably _due-to-his-hunger_ thought creeps into his head.  “Who?” he asks quietly, stoning his features so he can seem truly curious.

                This obviously throws the poor girl, and Jensen almost says he’s just kidding, but then the tiny thing points again, _more_ _furiously_ —waving his credit card back and forth. “ _Him!”_ she yips; waiting another moment more before _finally_ pulling her arm inside and swiping the card along the edge of her register.

                Jensen sighs with relief but figures he’s already committed now, so he may as well roll with it. “I don’t know who you’re talking about” he says calmly. The girl’s face scrunches up and she points again. Jensen looks back to the other side of the cab, purposely staring _past_ Misha and then to the back behind his seat. After some exaggerated inspections, he rounds back and shrugs at the tiny, red-clad worker. As the girl begins to tighten up with obvious nerves, he catches his truck’s reflection in the glass of the window—as well as himself— _and Misha_ , who is now shaking his head, looking up at the girl and pressing one finger to his lips, attempting to silence her. It takes all of Jensen’s skills to keep it together when the young things gasps—practically tossing the card back at him and closing up her window as fast as she can. He punctuates the moment with a grimace and another shrug—finally pulling away towards the second window to retrieve their food.

                “Oh my god, we’re assholes!” Misha bursts out once they’re free and clear, laughing and slapping his knee—making a little cloud of dirt flit into the air.

                “You didn’t have to go with it!” Jensen muses while sliding his card back into his wallet.

                Misha snickers some more and then juts out his arms—doing an inflated display of “comedy elbows”. “Well, we were doin’ a bit.”

                “Oh my god, you’re such a … _shh_ , _shh._ Shut up, I think she’s at this window now.” And sure enough, as they roll to a stop outside the second opening, _there she is,_ hiding just behind her co-worker as he hands a few food bags through to Jensen.  Jensen takes them and reaches back, dropping the bags blindly into the passenger seat—as if no one was there at all. He hopes Misha didn’t react.

                It’s barely a whisper, but he hears the girl mutter to the young man in front of her “Do you see him too?” The young man leans back and nods tightly, giving Jensen a small placating wave. He returns it to the two frightened employees—playing up his confusion and annoyance as he finally pulls away … the sounds of “Oh my god!” and “That was so freaky!” ringing out from the drive-thru window behind them.

_We really are assholes._

 

 

                After another stop at a gas station so Misha could wash his hands and actually be able to _touch_ his food, the two drive the final twenty minutes back to the stages, munching on their disgustingly heavy breakfast the entire way.

                “This has been a weird day” Jensen finally mumbles—swallowing the last bite of his hashbrown.

                “Yep” Misha confirms, still too busy with his apple pie to really be paying attention at all.

                “Last night was good though.”

                Misha swallows and then smiles a sticky grin. “ _Very_ good.”

                The front gates open with the swipe of Jensen’s key card and soon the two are pulling through the lots, slowly heading back in the direction of the trailers. Various crew members nod and wave at them—some squinting a little as they catch short glimpses of Misha—muddy and slouching in the passenger seat. They almost make it all the way back, but Jared’s shaggy head is suddenly bouncing towards them; so Jensen slows to a stop and rolls down his window so they can talk.

                “Hey, where the fuck have you guys bee—” Jared’s mouth falls open as he leans into the window and looks Misha up and down. “Okay _seriously_ , just _what the hell_ were you guys doing all night?”

                Jensen only raises an eyebrow at him. “Do you _really_ want to hear the details?”

                Jared scrunches up his face. “ _Ew_ , no!”

                “Oh, _c’mon_ … it was _super_ hot. Jensen got on top of me and he was all grinding and _oh my god!_ You should’ve seen it!”

                Jared takes a wide step back and covers his ears. “ _Ew, ew, ew!_ No! Shut up!”

                Jensen would say something but he’s too busy cracking up.

                “Oh! You should see the shirt I was wearing too! It’s glazed like a doughnut!”

                “ _Oh my god!_ ”

                “That’s what I was yelling last night!”

                “ _Jensen_ — make him shut up!”

                Jensen buckles in the middle and plops his head onto the steering wheel, vibrating uncontrollably, and just then— Misha starts moaning , trying to accurately recreate the scene from the night before.

                “ _Fuck—_ I’m walking away now. You two have fun being disgusting.”

                “Will do!” Misha calls out after him—laughing as the moose scampers off behind one of the warehouses.

                “He’s gonna get you back for that, ya know?” Jensen chuckles, finally calming down from all the hilarity.

                Misha sighs and reclines once more into his seat. “Yeah, _I know_. But it was worth it.”

                Jensen smiles at him, unable to stop himself from scooting over and giving the man a kiss—even if it _does_ taste faintly of mud.

                Misha smiles back, going from _devious_ to _sweet_ in a way that only _Misha_ can.

 _I swear, he’s part sour patch kid._ “How about we head to your trailer so you can get cleaned up?” Jensen says after looking his friend over another moment.

                “You gonna help me?” Misha asks—hope obviously coating the question.

                “Of course” Jensen whispers, putting out his hand for Misha to take—and as always, _Misha does._

   

 

   

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Remember to subscribe and follow my wonderful artist for this fic at [51st](http://51st.tumblr.com) and [51stCenturyFox](http://archiveofourown.org/users/51stCenturyFox/pseuds/51stCenturyFox). 
> 
>  
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at: [Castiel-Left-His-Mark-On-Me](http://castiel-left-his-mark-on-me.tumblr.com)
> 
> For more Cockles and Destiel fluff, smut and overall feels, please check out the rest of my Ao3.


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